


The Matter Of Parenthood

by LittleMissMoriarty



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Distressing events, Infantile death, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mpreg, graphic birth, mystrade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-28
Updated: 2016-11-29
Packaged: 2018-09-02 17:47:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8676934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleMissMoriarty/pseuds/LittleMissMoriarty
Summary: Sherlock had been sitting on an experiment for a while, something he had kept on a need to know basis. There had been months, even years of planning to this experiment, and now the results were in his reach. But, ontop of the success of this experiment, comes a thrilling new case for the detective and his blogger, all the while Sherlock is stalked by an unknown character, with seemingly morbid intentions. Who is this man, and will Sherlock be able to tell John the truth to his 'experiment'?. (Btw guys this is my first attempt at creating my own case story, so it may be shaky and riddled with plot holes, but nonetheless I shall try!)





	1. How To Start An Engine

"Sherlock!" 

John shouted as he stomped into the living room to find Sherlock sitting in his chair and hands on his chin, deducing, as per usual. His eyes were shut in concentration and nicotine patches lined the inside of his right arm, it seemed like it was a 4 patch problem, usually something that would occupy him for days, but that didn't stop John from interrupting him.

"Sherlock, What have I told you about keeping disembodied fingers in the sink?"  
He asked, Sherlock remained still, not even glancing up at the annoyed doctor. 

John couldn't even tell if he was bothering to pay attention, half the time he wasn't, and the other half he would just ignore him. For a genius, he could be quite ignorant. Knowing Sherlock, he was probably strolling around his mind palace, looking up how many different types of fibre there are, or something useless like that. He slowly opened his eyes and stared straight ahead. 

"I needed to see how long they float for, the kitchen sink was occupied, so I had no other option. Don't mind do you?" Sherlock mumbled absently, eyes fixated on John's chair facing opposite to him. 

John let out a frustrated sigh and held up his hands in defeat, before letting them hit the side of his trousers rather loudly. Sherlock rolled his eyes, understanding the signal from John to do something before he got the full blown attack. He placed his hands over the arm rests delicately, spreading his fingers over the ends.

"I'll move them later, might have to ask Mrs.Hudson if I could use her sink... She won't be able to use it, but it doesn't matter..." Sherlock mumbled, hoping to provoke a sense of guilt in John.

He leapt up from his chair with an impressive twirl of his dressing gown and headed to the open window behind him. He picked up his violin nimbly from the table, pulled the bow against the strings, and began to play a rather energetic piece vigorously. John growled in frustration.

"Sherlock, Sh-Sherlock! Oh for god's sake!" John fumed as Sherlock remained adamant on continuing the piece.

The detective looked at John, his chin still resting on the instrument he was playing, and frowned.

"What did you say?" John tried to repeat himself, and Sherlock shook his head, "I can't hear you over the music, try again?"

The music drowned out John's angry mumbles as he grabbed his jacket from the stand.

"I'm going out!" John shouted over sherlock's frantic playing as he slammed the door behind him with a loud bang.

Sherlock waited until he saw John walk down the street before stopping halfway through the piece. He leapt over to the fridge and opened it. He reached to the very back, past the jar of big toes and freezer bags of ears and eyes to a rack of test tubes, hidden amongst the assortment of the fridge's contents. Carefully, Sherlock took it out of the fridge and placed it on the table next to his chemistry equipment. Finally, he had the last ingredient to make it complete, and the window of opportunity he had made for himself was gradually closing, so he couldn't dawdle. He took out a vial from the inside pocket of his suit jacket and lifted it up to his eyes, flicking the side to see the contents within vibrate. He smiled before pulling down the helmet on his head and setting his blowtorch to work. As the hours past, Sherlock heated and filtered and distilled and boiled until he was satisfied with the finished product. He finished in the nick of time as John arrived just as he had hidden his experiment back within the darkest reaches of the fridge, keeping a single vial in his pocket. He only had to test it now to see if it worked, he would need a donation of course. The 'host' had already been chosen and he had his eyes set on one particular man to supply the essential fuel to make the whole thing work.

"Calmed down?" Sherlock inquired with a smirk on his face as he pulled out two mugs from the cabinet.

He heard John sigh frustratedly and collapse onto his chair. He didn't answer Sherlock, which wasn't normal for John, who would probably just laugh it off. Sherlock swerved into view, armed with two cups of hot tea in his hands and placed them on the table between the two chairs before settling into his chair, leaning forwards to try and deduce what was causing his blogger to sulk. John wiped his face with his hands, sighing as he did. He smiled thinly at Sherlock.

"Heather's just left me," he chuckled, frowning at his hands.

Sherlock frowned too, but for a different reason.

"Who's Heather?"

John glared at him intensely.

"My girlfriend, or rather my EX-girlfriend now!" He raised his voice and a thin smile grew on his face (John had a tendency to smile when he was furious, Sherlock had picked up on that quite easily when they first started living together).

"I don't remember her."

John raised his eyebrows and glared at Sherlock even more.

"That's because I never brought her here, do you know why?"

Sherlock didn't answer, because he didn't know. John exhaled deeply through his nose.

"Because every time I bring a woman over, you find some fault or dark secret just from the way they like their tea. Believe it or not Sherlock, I don't want to die alone!"

"Well it would be much quieter.." Sherlock mumbled to himself, unfortunately, John heard.

"No, Sherlock, not quiet, lonely." John said, pointing at Sherlock warningly.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows in thought and looked back at John.

"They mean the same thing more or less."

John sighed with surrender and wiped his eyes tiredly.

"Yeah, well, I don't want to be either of those things... I thought she was the one, after..." John paused, and blinked, trying to avoid that topic, "After these past years."

"Evidently not," Sherlock answered, emphasising the end 't', "Why this sudden change of heart?"

John looked up at Sherlock from his hands, and gave a huff of cold amusement. 

"She said it was down to the fact that I love my flatmate more than my girlfriend, I couldn't argue with that, seeing as though I spend every bloody minute I'm not at work with you, solving the case of the missing cat or God knows what, so tell me Sherlock." He said, leaning in close. "Why, why do I keep doing this? Hm? Why, oh why, do I stay here?" John asked, staring at Sherlock, who had picked up his tea and began to gulp it down quickly. He somehow managed to maintain John's eye contact past the mug.

He stared at the swirling liquid with a content smacking of his lips before placing it back onto the table. That should be enough. Time for his plan to start up, first, switch on the engine.

"Well, because you live here John," John rolled his eyes as if to say 'obviously', "and," Sherlock paused, placing his hands gently on John's knees before looking up coyly at the stunned man.

John was speechless, his mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. He was confused, and surprised. What was happening? Sherlock leant forward and brushed his lips against John's ear. 

" I don't know what I'd do without you..." John felt his warm breath on his ear and closed his eyes, softly groaning involuntarily with pleasure. 

Then, make the engine purr. 

He rubbed his face on Sherlock's neck. Sherlock moved his hands to the inside of John's legs and started to massage his thighs, making John's groans escalate in volume. 

Put it into first gear... 

After a few minutes, He stood up without explaination and walked lightly to his room in hopes that John would pursue him, not once looking back. John bit his lip lustfully in a hopeless attempt to stop himself. His mind was telling him no, but his erection was screaming yes. He shook his head before chasing after sherlock and locking the door behind him, giggling playfully. 

And accelerate!

John collapsed into the mattress, sweat made his head gleam and his chest was heaving. He turned to look at Sherlock, who was casually smoking a cigarette, chuckling. The red duvet was flung across his naked body, hiding his lower half. Still panting, John managed to say to himself.

"Now there's no way I can say I'm not gay..." This made Sherlock's lazy chuckles ascend into clear laughter. 

He wrapped his arm across John's chest and pushed him back onto the bed forcefully. Swiftly, he put out the cigarette in his ashtray he kept by the bed, a stream of smoke lifted from the embers. He pulled John in closer and started to gently kiss up his neck. Sherlock's soft lips tickled the hair on his sticky neck and John felt a shudder of delight go through his clammy body. 

"Nnn ..." He murmured thickly, trying to make himself not want Sherlock's pleasurable touch.

"Why deny it when it's so good?" Sherlock chuckled in a hushed tone, staring deep into John's blue eyes. 

John shrugged his shoulders and gave a brief shake of his head, a large smile plastered on his face. His gaze looked down to Sherlock's pointed lips, so supple and... Delicious. He place his thumb on the bottom lip and delicately traced the outline. Sherlock closed his eyes and pursed his lips in hope of John's meeting them. John leant in so close, his lips brushing Sherlock's and felt his warm breath. He paused, Sherlock's body trembled with anticipation of John's lips upon his. John pulled back and returned to his side of the bed, leaving Sherlock disappointed. His eyes searched the room for his missing trousers and jumper, to find his trousers hanging off of the open door of Sherlock's wardrobe, and his jumper half out of the window. What else was he missing? He sighed and slowly got up to his feet to rescue his jumper.

"Woah, moon's out bright tonight John, and it's a big one!" Sherlock laughed, looking at John's rather chubby behind. 

John felt his face flush bright red, that's what he was forgetting, his pants. 

"Stop looking at my arse Sherlock." He grumbled, shooting the detective a frown, who raised his eyebrows accusingly.

"I let you see my arse, and do other things to it as well... I don't think I'll have to see my GP about a prostate check anymore after what you did last night... Doctor." He mumbled slyly. 

John caught a glimpse of his pants poking out from the bed sheets and nabbed them, relieving himself somewhat of the embarrassment. Still facing the wall, he slipped them on and headed firstly for his jumper. Winters within England were bitterly cold, especially in the morning, even more so if you were basically naked. He pulled it over his head and then grabbed his trousers from the wardrobe door. They were halfway on when he realised that there was a massive white stain across the knees. He shut his eyes and sighed in remembrance of how they came into play a few hours ago. He pulled them off again and walked out of the room to get a clean pair. He soon returned wearing his old brown trousers, stain-free, sex-free, Sherlock-free. He took a glance in the mirror to mess around with his hair so it would look presentable for work. 

"Where are you going?" Sherlock questioned, still remaining in his provocative position, the sheets outlined his stiff member, and gave insight to the length and girth of it.

He stretched out his arms until he heard the satisfying click of his joints.

"You missed work hours ago, you were too busy conducting a colonoscopy on me..." Sherlock mumbled.

John whipped his head around in horror to see whether Sherlock was telling the truth or not. The clock on the bedside table confirmed Sherlock's statement, reading 11:30 am on the hands. 

"Ssssshit!" He hissed to himself, practically ripping off the jacket on the hanger. 

Sherlock laughed at his sudden increase in speed and watched him tug the jacket roughly over his shoulders.

"Don't worry, I called you in sick. I described your symptoms as hot flushes, sweating and fatigue, I wonder what illness that's called..." He said as John turned to face him, glaring angrily.

Sherlock gestured towards John's face lazily with his right index finger.

"You look like a cherry, really, you do, makes me want to just eat you..." Sherlock groaned, his hand disappearing beneath the covers. 

John's expression remained the same, even though he was really fighting the urge to join Sherlock underneath the covers. He shook his head as he opened the door.

"No, I need to go to work, I have enough overdue patients as it is..." He grumbled, shutting the door as he went.

Sherlock was left alone.

Good.

After an hour of lying in bed with a stiffie, he got up and headed straight to his equipment in the kitchen, eager to see if his experiment had worked or not. He retrieved the solution and urinated into a beaker (it was necessary for the indicator to work). He combined the two and waited for the solution to settle. He flicked the side of the beaker a couple of times to speed up the process, grinning as he saw the liquid turn deep blue in colour. The He peered down at his stomach.

"Hello Junior."


	2. The New Sherlock 2.0

He had decided to tell John about it when he had gotten an ultrasound developed of the growing foetus, (he wanted a picture that wasn't just a floating sac or something along those lines). Of course, he would have to tell Mycroft immediately, or else he might end up discovering on his own terms and then proceed to tell John about the matter, which would not end well considering the last time Sherlock had started smoking again - and not in the legal sense. Mycroft had done just that and it resulted in Sherlock being dragged to the nearest rehab centre by John, where he was subjected to torturous hours of group chats and therapy. There he remained for two months before he'd pissed off all of the workers there. It wasn't too soon after that he was released 4 months early much to the relief of Sherlock (and nearly everyone else there). On the plus side, it gave him 4 months to himself, which was plenty enough time for him to be operated on so that he could actually sustain a pregnancy (He knew a guy). He'd also earned a good amount of money from dealing to the people who were there for the same reason he was, and who weren't going to give up their crack anytime soon. Unfortunately, he now had a child to consider, and whatever he did to himself would also affect the child's growth and health, especially so early on in the pregnancy. And knowing John, that would mean no smoking, of any kind, no arduous work, no guns and the most awful of all, no cases. The smoking was understandable, the fact that he won't be able to do cases was another thing entirely. But, if Sherlock's plans followed their right course, that would only happen in the last 3, maybe 2 months, if he was lucky, and if the pregnancy went smoothly.

He'd arranged to meet Mycroft in the most unexpected place - a cafe. Well, it was unexpected for the two brothers who often met in Sherlock's apartment, most of the time without Sherlock knowing that they had arranged a visit. So when Sherlock saw Mycroft sitting at a table at the back of the room, he couldn't help but laugh to himself quietly. Mycroft Holmes would rarely venture out of his house for the Queen let alone for tea and cake with his brother in the local greasy spoon. But there he was, with a cup of tea, sticking out like a sore thumb. A sore, pedicured thumb, that is. He clocked Sherlock coming towards the table and welcomed him with a sickly smile that didn't reach his eyes, an iconic look for him, how he hadn't gotten his face bashed in with it, Sherlock didn't know. Several times he had been tempted to. He had his hands clasped together with his elbows hovering above the greasy surface of the table.

"What am I doing here? And why on Earth did you think that it was a good enough reason to meet in a cafe surrounded by idle gossip and chit chat?" He asked, glaring at Sherlock, who had sat down opposite him. No smiles now.

Sherlock sighed. 

Get right to the point.

"Because it's not every day that you get to tell your brother he's going to be an uncle." He cooly replied, a glint of tiredness in his eyes.

Mycroft lifted his eyebrows in surprise. He stared at him down his long hooked nose.

"Sherlock Holmes somehow managed to get a woman pregnant? Mummy and daddy won't be pleased." He said, shaking his head disapprovingly, even though his eyes shone with delight at the thought of the amount of trouble Sherlock would get from their parents, a large grin stretched on his smug face. 

Sherlock swore that he could tell where each fold in his face came from, and how many were products of Mycroft's glee in his baby brother being scolded. He frowned deeply and glared at him with annoyance, a look he had perfected when he was 9.

 

"Me sleep with a woman? Don't be absurd Mycroft, you and I both know that's not how I operate, and if I were to sleep with a woman it would purely be for a case. No, what I'm saying is that I am pregnant, exactly 3 weeks and a half." He said, staring at Mycroft with a straight face.

Mycroft's face froze, his eyes blinked furiously like there was something in them. He gave a chuckle of disbelief.

"What?"

It was clear to Sherlock (and probably anyone with a brain cell) that he was taken aback by this news and that somewhat infuriated his already wavering nerves. He leant back on his chair and quickly studied the table; crumbs from toast, a stain of coffee, the odd remnant of a fried egg. He decided to play cool, to not allow his nerves to get the better of him. He lifted his eyebrows in pretend wonder at his brothers shock. Sherlock shrugged his shoulders and looked around the room tiresomely. 

"I'm pregnant, what more is there to say?" He said simply, looking at Mycroft and trying to ignore the frown of horror dawning on his face.

"If this is a late April fools joke consider it well played, but if-" he said, leaning in with a face that would turn medusa to stone. "If you have indeed done the undoable then, William Sherlock Scott Holmes, you are in even more trouble than I first thought." 

Sherlock sighed, annoyed by the fact that Mycroft had used his full name, it meant that he was angry. He knew full well that Mycroft was about to go into one of his god awful rants. He knew that once Mycroft had started, there was no stopping him until he either became light headed or if he was strangled by whomever he was taking it out on. Normally, it was the first option, but Sherlock was feeling the urge to break the system. When Sherlock didn't speak, Mycroft took that as a no on the joke's behalf and his brow furrowed in anger and confusion. The disappointed parent staring down at their son with a cut lip from fighting. Only, it was the disappointed brother.

"What did you think is going to happen? You'll stay slim and in 9 months a child will magically poof into existence before it moves out a few minutes later? Did it never occur to you that there would need to be at least a fraction of responsibility in this? You can't even look after yourself let alone another human being! And who did you get to perform this-this, what experiment? With you? Huh? Was it Lestrade? Was it that Anderson? Was it t-" Mycroft's face cleared, and became unsettlingly calm.

"John." He said, his voice quiet and frosty.

He slowly sank back into his seat without a word and stared into nothing. Embarrassed, Sherlock retreated to the collar of his coat and signalled for the waitress to get him a cup of tea. She brought it over and placed it on the table with a small clang which seemed to be amplified greatly in the quietness that occupied Sherlock and Mycroft's table. Sherlock gave her a thin smile of dismissal before returning to his collar, avoiding eye contact with Mycroft at all costs. After a while of silence Mycroft cleared his throat quietly.

"Does he know?" 

"Does who know?" Sherlock retorted, still not feeling like talking to Mycroft.

"John. Does he know that you two are now expecting a child?" He asked, picking himself up from his slumped position.

Still avoiding eye contact, Sherlock shuffled in his seat and picked up his drink. He lifted it to his lips.

"No." He replied before taking a sip of the now lukewarm tea. 

"And I'm guessing you told me first so that it will stay like that?" Mycroft asked, straightening his back, his voice still unsettlingly quiet.

"Just for a month or two so that I can make sure everything is going smoothly and so I can get an ultrasound to show him when the time comes." Sherlock explained, a soft undertone of pleading in his voice. "I don't want him to find out about it and then something goes wrong, I don't want to do that to him, not after Mary..." Sherlock trailed off, remembering when Mary had gone into labour.

Only a small percentage of women die in childbirth, thanks to the technology available today, but, it still happened, from time to time. Mary was in that small handful of women who didn't make it through. It was something to do with blood loss on her behalf, a long, painful labour which took its toll on her body. And if losing his wife wasn't bad enough, John also lost the baby. Mary had gone into labour prematurely, which proved to be too stressful for the child, an undetected heart problem was the fuse. It had died in the womb a few hours before it was born, the doctors didn't know until they had began to monitor the heartbeat, to only find out that there was none. When they finally managed to deliver it, they found that she was a girl. John's little, baby girl. He had been going on about it for weeks, saying that if it was a girl they would call it Amelia, Amelia Elizabeth Watson, named so after his grandmother or something like that. He was in the waiting room when he found out, the staff said that he broke into a screaming fit, lashing out at anyone who tried to comfort him. Sherlock only knew about it when John had walked into his flat and collapsed into Sherlock's arms before dissolving into sobbing. He had been living in 221B Baker Street ever since. Each year, on the anniversary of their death, he would place a bouquet of flowers on both of their graves. It had been 3 years, but to John, it felt like it was only yesterday. 

Mycroft sighed and contemplated the situation, staring at Sherlock to see if his emotions were genuine or not. 

"Fine. 2 months, I'll keep my mouth shut." He said, standing up.

He gathered his cane in one hand and turned to Sherlock, glancing down at where his stomach was beneath his coat.

"Congratulations on your new arrival, Brother dearest," he said, before making his way out of the cafe, leaving his half empty cup of tea on the table.

 

When Sherlock returned home, he found that he had the flat to himself. John was busy at work, although it was close to his leaving time, and Mrs. Hudson had probably gone out to do her routine shop. He collapsed onto the sofa with a sigh. Despite the negative response from Mycroft, it wasn't as bad as Sherlock had originally perceived it to be. His idea of Mycroft's reaction had ended up in Mycroft locking him up in some sort of cage to be studied and tested on whilst he progressed through his pregnancy, but that might've just been the brotherly hostility coming into play.

As of late, his emotions were all over the place. One moment he would be right as rain and then the other felt like he could shrivel up and die. He didn't have the chance to experience his mother go thorough this as he was the youngest of the 3 Holmes' boys, and according to Mycroft, the stupidest as well. Bloody Mycroft...Always there to bring him down, always there to insult and bully. Oh, look at me, I'm the whole of the bloody British government! I help support my drug-addled simple-minded brother from time to time just because I love the attention!

Sherlock wiped his face and groaned. There was nothing to do! The TV didn't work since the last time Sherlock had punched it from getting annoyed at TJKS, anyone of interest, no matter how little, was out, there were no cases in sight and he had misplaced his gun again. He hummed to himself, desperately trying to find something to occupy his mind. Upon deciding that he was hungry, he stood up to make his way to the fridge, and almost immediately regretted his choice.

A sudden wave of nausea crashed over him and sent the world spinning. Bile rose up in his throat and without a moment to lose, he dashed urgently to the bathroom to throw up. He had hardly made it before he vomited into the toilet with some horrific retching and gagging. When he was sure that it was all gone, he relaxed his body across the toilet seat. He panted and grabbed some toilet roll to clean his lips. His throat burned and a sour taste now lingered in his mouth. It almost caused him to throw up for the 2nd time. He was getting off of the floor when he heard the downstairs door shut, and the tell tale sounds of John's unequal footsteps going up the stairs.

He mustn't see me like this! Sherlock thought, almost chugging the bottle of mouthwash to conceal the sourness of his mouth. He spat it out hastily.

John would no doubt want a welcoming kiss, knowing the romantic that he was, and the last thing Sherlock wanted was for John to taste the acidic remains of what was toast and tea. They had been going out since that first sexual encounter, and it seemed that John's passion was everlasting, especially in bed. He always found new ways to entice Sherlock, roleplaying was one of his best fortes, he almost never broke role. Once, he played a hobbit ( he was somewhat a fanatic for the J.R Tolkien books) and eventually persuaded Sherlock to play the dragon, Smaug. It was a different experience for Sherlock, not that he had had many experiences of the sexual kind, but it was exhilirating. He liked subduing John, and being in control. 

Sherlock hastily sorted out his suit and hair in the bathroom mirror, only succeeding in ruffling his hair up even more. At least he had an excuse as to why it was so out of place: trying to look nice for his beloved boyfriend. He gave himself a dashing smile.

"I'm home!" He heard John shout from the living room and took it as a cue to come out of the bathroom, hoping that he wouldn't have to make another dart for the toilet whilst John was present.

John's face lit up when he saw Sherlock walk into the room and he went to greet him. Sherlock kissed John and quickly wrapped him in a hug, much to the surprise of John, who would normally have to force a kiss upon Sherlock's cheek. 

"Um, hello?" He said, his voice muffled from being buried into Sherlock's chest.

"Hi." Sherlock replied, swaying the two for a few minutes in quietness.

When he was finally released from Sherlock's embrace, he was somewhat surprised. He frowned at Sherlock questioningly.

"You, you, ok?" He asked casually, taking off his coat and hanging it up, maintaining his vision on Sherlock.

"I'm splendid." Sherlock replied with a clap of his hands.

John looked at him uncertainly. Sherlock lifted his eyebrows in defence.

"I am!" He said loudly, his voice reaching its higher points.

John held up his hands in submission and headed to the kitchen. Sherlock jumped back onto the sofa and into the warm groove from where he had been previously lying.

"Cup of tea for me thanks." He said.

John leaned past the wall and stared at Sherlock.

"I never asked."

"2 sugars please, no milk." Was Sherlock's answer to John, which earned him an annoyed sigh.

"I know how you like your tea Sherl..." He heard him mumble.

Quietly, Sherlock got off the sofa and tiptoed into the kitchen, trying not to alert John, who had his back to the living room. Slowly, Sherlock snuck up behind him and wrapped him in his arms, letting out a cry of triumph at his catch. John hadn't noticed him come in, and jumped at the sudden surprise. He laughed and placed his arms on top of Sherlock's, abandoning the cups of tea he was currently in the process of making. Sherlock spun him around a few times, narrowly missing the counter tops and chairs. He turned John to face him, his face was lit up in amazement.

"Who are you? You aren't the Sherlock Holmes I know!" He exclaimed breathlessly, stretching up to kiss him.

"Do you want him back?" Sherlock asked playfully, returning John's kiss with his own.

"I don't know... Let's see how he is in bed before I decide..." John whispered, biting his lip with desire.

Sherlock chuckled deeply and proceeded to kiss John's neck, lazily at first, but each time he became more and more rougher until he was practically biting his neck, John's moans where like fuel to him. He slammed John into the fridge and moved to kissing his lips passionately, sharing steamy breaths with him. He held John's head in his hands and moved his fingers through his hair, pulling and roaming. He felt John hold onto his back, his nails embed into his skin on his shoulder blades, the pain shoot through him. His eyes flashed. This was like drugs, but better, it was adrenaline. John felt the push of Sherlock's body against his, the forceful invitation of his groin, the sensation of heat on heat. He soon succumbed to the motion, and allowed his hips to grind alongside Sherlock's. Their actions increased in speed and intensity, their breathing became ragged and feral. In mid-kiss, John pinned down Sherlock's lower lip with his teeth and let out a growl. He slipped out from the tight space between the fridge and Sherlock and made his way to their room, motioning slowly with his finger for Sherlock to follow, which he did.

They made quick work of ripping each other's clothes off, John undid Sherlock's trousers and belt. Tonight, there was no need for role play, tonight, they were being themselves, allowing their primitive side to show.

Sherlock pushed John onto the bed and clawed on top of him, his eyes wild with hunger. His hair had become disheveled, and added to the look of an untamed beast. Pressing against him, John scratched at his back and bit the part of Sherlock where his neck and body met. He released his bite and licked the indents where his teeth had been, sending Sherlock into a frenzy of desire. Sherlock trailed his lips down John's stomach and towards his groin, eventually ending up on the tip of John's stiff member. His world narrowed to the sensation of Sherlocks mouth on his tip, where he only lingered for a minute before going back to his lips. He whimpered with longing and felt his penis ache with the thirst for more attention. Sherlock's body brushed past it, sending John into even louder whining. Sherlock didn't care. He turned John over and bent him onto all fours, growling. John trembled with anticipation.

"Yes." John moaned as he felt Sherlock slip inside him and move rhythmically, back and forth. Each time, he hit his g-spot hard and sent him moaning. He lunged with the force of Sherlock's thrusts and had to hold onto the bed board for stability. Sherlock smacked John's arse and increased his tempo, he could feel the presence of an orgasm coming.

"Give it to me, harder!" John shouted, not caring if the whole street heard his screams for more.

Sherlock obeyed and slammed into him, a beast off of its leash. Closer and closer it got until he was right on the verge of exploding. He slammed into John one final time before he came. He roared in pleasure and slid off of him, panting from the work. This was going to be a night to remember.

They pleasured one another, kissed, ground and touched well into the night. This was the first time that both of them had felt alive in this way, the first time they were truly off of their leashes. They were animals, vicious predators in search of their prey.


	3. Roses Are Red, Violets Are Blue

John woke up to the sound of Sherlock in the bathroom. He groaned and smacked his lips together, his tongue dry. He became more alert when he heard retching coming from the bathroom, and sat up.

"Sherlock?" He called out, he didn't answer.

John threw the cover off of himself and sat on the edge of the bed, wiping away the blurriness in his eyes.

"Are you alright?" He asked, walking out of the room and into the bathroom where the noises were coming from. 

He was greeted with Sherlock hugging the toilet like it was his best friend. His whole body heaved as he threw up into the toilet. He looked up blearily at John and grimaced at the sight of the Doctor standing in the entrance to the bathroom, with his eyebrows scrunched in concern. He'd tried to be quiet, to avoid waking John up and potentially giving himself away, but it was obvious he had failed. It would make John suspicious. He opened his mouth to say something, but instead threw up again into the toilet. When he had done, he turned his head to face John.

"I'm, I'm fine John, go back to bed." He said wearily, shooing John away.

John didn't move, he wasn't going to let his boyfriend be sick whilst he laid in bed. He was going to help him through this. That's what doctors do, isn't it? He knelt down beside Sherlock and soothingly rubbed his back.

"I'm not going to let you stay here all by yourself when you're so sick, I'm a doctor, it's what I do." He said sternly.

Sherlock sighed and shakily stood up. He looked at John and gave a half-hearted flourish of his hands.

"See? I'm fine, something just disagreed with me, that's all, I'll be ok in the morning, I promise." He mumbled, trudging past John. 

However, he soon came running back into the bathroom and practically flung himself onto the toilet. It was evident that he was not over his brief sickness just yet. 

"I'm just going to go into the kitchen for something that might help Sherlock, I won't be long." John said, hurrying into the kitchen.

He returned about 10 minutes later with a steaming cup of tea. Ginger. Ginger was, to Sherlock, what marmite is to others; this repulsive, sickening substance that had every desire to kill Sherlock's taste buds whilst forcing its way down his throat only to return in the near future in an even less appealing form (if such form did exist). John offered the cup to Sherlock, who pushed it away weakly. John sighed with annoyance at the stubbornness of his boyfriend.

"It's ginger tea, helps with nausea. I used it on Mary when she had morning sickness so it'll probably work with you." John said, tensing with the mention of Mary. 

John stretched the cup out closer to Sherlock. And, it was morning sickness he was experiencing... He eyed it uncertainly, and took it from John's hands. He knew that he wouldn't mention Mary unless it truly mattered, and, it wouldn't exactly worsen his condition. Sherlock drank the whole thing in a matter of seconds and placed the empty cup on the counter-top before returning to his position over the toilet.

He rested his head on his hands and shut his eyes, breathing deeply. The tea did seem to help, and he was vomiting less and less frequently. For a period, he was able to sleep for a while before he felt sick again, and each time he was, John would remain by his side with soothing words, and an aching back. 

It was early hours by the time Sherlock had stopped being sick, and John was relieved that the following day was Sunday. There was no way in hell that he would be able to make it to work by 11, let alone 8. He'd only managed to get to sleep at around 3. He didn't wake until mid-day, which gave Sherlock plenty of time to look better and feel it too. Unlike John, he was used to going long periods of time without sleep and could go to bed at 2 and rise at 7 the same day feeling refreshed. 

He was in the middle of an experiment (whether a human eye could withstand 200 degrees) when there was a knock on the door. At first, he ignored it, for he was certain that Mrs Hudson would get it, as she always did. But when the knocking repeated, this time more loudly, Sherlock had no choice but to go down to answer it so he could continue with his experiment in peace. By the time he had opened the door, the person had disappeared into thin air. Sherlock looked up and down the street to see if there was anyone who looked like they were waiting but there wasn't, and he was just about to shut the door when he noticed something at his feet. He bent down and picked it up. It was a baby rattle, yellow in colour with a big cream bow tied to the bottom of the rattle where the stick connected to it. Attached to it with string was a brown label. Frowning, Sherlock turned it over to read the slanted, spidery writing on the other side:

Roses are red,  
Violets are blue  
Didn't think I could tell Sherlock?  
And you haven't even told John the news...

 

Sherlock's heart skipped a beat and his mouth became dry. He looked up and down the street again in hopes of spotting whoever had left this, but again, couldn't find anyone. Only one person knew about this, well, 3 people... It was obvious he was being watched, but their intentions were unknown at least, at the time being. Sherlock gulped and walked calmly back inside. He waited until he heard the click of the door shutting before racing frantically up to his flat. 

Chucking the rattle aside, he jumped into his chair and flung all of the books off the shelf, desperately trying to find a camera, surveillance, anything that would explain how anyone would know. To his dismay, he found nothing, not even a wire. Perhaps it wasn't in the shelf, but somewhere else in the room. It wouldn't be his computer, John had borrowed it for work on the day he had conducted the experiment, because he had spilt coffee on his. Sherlock searched high and low, but couldn't find anything of any use. He was like a sitting duck, waiting for the hunter to shoot him. He didn't like that. But, It didn't have to necessarily be in the flat, someone might have overheard his and Mycroft's conversation, he thought to himself, but why then proceed to leave a rattle along with a rather suspicious note? Could it be blackmail? A crazed fan? He threw himself into his chair and tapped his fingers furiously on the armrest.

Why, why, why?!

 

His train of thought was interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps up the stairs. Judging by the heaviness and rhythm, it was Lestrade, undoubtedly with another case for Sherlock to solve. Unsurprisingly, Sherlock was correct and he was met by the rather pale-looking Detective inspector. He put on his calm mask.

"Ah, Lestrade, didn't hear you come in." Sherlock said, perching his hands underneath his chin. "What do you have for me this time?"

"I'm not here with a case, just thought I might... Pop in, see how you're doing..." He trailed off, looking absently around the trashed room, his eyes lingered slightly on the bottle of red wine in the kitchen. 

"What happened here?"

"Spring cleaning. Why are you here?"

Lestrade's eyebrows knitted together in confusion.

"It's winter." 

Sherlock ignored Lestrade's last comment and remained firm on getting to the point as to why he was there.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock repeated in a slow pace, emphasising each sound like he was talking to a baby.

Lestrade shrugged and his hands hit his sides as he looked around the room innocently.

"I told you, just thought I might come in and see how you're doing, like any normal person would, not that you would know of course"

Sherlock knew otherwise. Lestrade had bags under his eyes from a unsettled night, probably from the wife, or ex-wife, judging by the lack of a wedding ring. From the quality of his clothes, he had had a late night at the office and so, couldn't be bothered to change into anything different. Stubble had began to grow on his face because he didn't have enough time to shave. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and raised a single eyebrow, which was enough to make the inspector crack. Lestrade sighed and lowered himself onto the sofa, wiping his face as he did so.

"It was yesterday, 'bout half 5. On Gloucester Terrace there's a hotel, a woman called Isabelle Timmel had a room with a balcony. According to eye witnesses, she came onto the balcony with two pistols in her hands and started to shoot at random people, screaming something biblical, what was it... Judas! That's what it was...Y-you do know who Judas is right?" Sherlock gave him an offended look, "Alright alright! Anyway, eventually she shot herself in the back of the head. Her body was taken to St. Bartholomew's. Suicide." Lestrade explained.

Sherlock turned to him with a sarcastic smile.

"Well done Lestrade, you figured it out for yourself for once, clever boy." His smile dropped to a straight line of disinterest. "Now, if that's the only reason you came here then please kindly get out." Sherlock asked, opening the door for Lestrade to walk through. Lestrade looked offended, and sat up taller.

No, that's not all of it! The reason why I'm coming to you is what happened after her suicide." Lestrade said.

"What happened?" Sherlock asked impatiently, he didn't like it when other people where cryptic about information.

"She shot a woman. Three times." Lestrade said, causing Sherlock to turn around in interest.

"What?"

"The lady who killed herself apparently rose from the dead and murdered a miss Lisa Swan in her hotel room." Lestrade explained simply.

"How do you know it was her?"

"A man saw her exit the room where the woman was killed right after her estimated death time."

"Where is this man?"

Lestrade blew out a long breath and raised his eyebrows.

"Well he scooted off before we could sit him down and get any of his details."

Sherlock sighed and gave Lestrade a look that said, 'really?'

"And what, you just take this mystery man's word as gospel?"

Lestrade held out his hands as a gesture of defence.

"Hey, hey! There's cctv footage of Timmel entering and leaving the room around the time of the victim's predicted murder, we aren't that stupid!"

Sherlock remained motionless, his eyes glimmering with excitement. Suddenly, he bolted into his bedroom to wake up the sleeping John. After a few exchanges of grumbles, John soon appeared with his shirt untucked and his hair looking like he had been hit with 2000 volts. 

"What was all that banging?" He grumbled, scratching the nape of his neck.

"Spring cleaning." Sherlock repeated, putting his scarf and coat on.

"Mmmm... Winter...." John mumbled absently.

Why did everyone say that?

"Winter cleaning then."

John rose his eyebrows in acceptance of Sherlock's alibi, and waved tiredly at Lestrade, who tipped his head in return, mildly surprised by John's state of tiredness, but mainly by the fact that he was in Sherlock's bedroom. (One thing Sherlock and John had agreed not to do was to tell everyone, other than Mrs. Hudson, about their relationship, Mrs Hudson only found out after accidentally walking in on them one night).

"I'll need 10 minutes at the crime scene, no less. And make sure Donovan isn't there." Sherlock turned to Lestrade. "Address?" 

"Oh uh, 81 Gloucester Terrace, Room 23. Sherlock w-" 

"I'll meet you there." Sherlock cut Lestrade off, hopping down the stairs, slowly followed by John.

He exited the house and raised a hand to hail a cab, quickly succeeding. He pushed John into the cab and got in after him, shutting the door behind him. Lestrade watched them as the cab pulled away, still trying to register what happened.

"Are those two....?" He asked no one but himself. He stood there for a while with a confused look on his face, only the wind answered his question for him. "Nah!" He chuckled to himself, shaking his head.

He got into his car and followed the cab ahead.


End file.
